


Stopwatch Hearts

by Siaht



Category: Septiplier - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Chaptered, Disturbing Themes, Heavy Angst, M/M, Possible Character Death, Supernatural Elements, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7326469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siaht/pseuds/Siaht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agony is what Mark's days have turned into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stopwatch Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own no rights to these two people or to any approximation of reality that may be referenced herein. I mean no offence by posting it and make no money from it.
> 
> A/N: I have no excuse for doing this to Mark and Sean. Feel free to flog me, but only after you finish reading. And please leave a comment :)

The first time Mark sees the numbers, he is on his living room’s couch and Chica is resting her head on his left thigh. He wants to stretch out that leg, but on the other hand, Chica is sleeping so peacefully. He stretches only his right leg out of the couch, carefully so that he doesn’t disturb his dog’s sleep or tip over the laptop sitting on that thigh. His hands are busy, one stroking Chica’s voluptuous fur at the neck and the other holding a tall glass of water. The video he just opened is playing on the computer’s screen, and Mark’s movements slow down to a halt as he stares curiously at it.

He figures out what he’s seeing almost instantly, but doesn’t understand how or why that’s there.

The email with the download link came about thirty minutes ago, the first one from the three he is supposed to receive before he goes to sleep. Sean is always the first to send the file from his recording when they play something together with the other guys – Wade and Bob most often – and since this one gameplay is going to be uploaded to Mark’s channel, he’s the one doing the editing.

A five-minute download later, Sean’s recording is already stored in the specific folder for the new video. Mark knows Sean would never send in a less-than-perfect recording, but uploads can mess things up and that’s mostly why he plays the video right away. He also enjoys reliving the gaming experience through his friends’ recordings, connecting the little moments his memory has kept from it with the reactions from the other guys. Most times Sean’s reactions are the ones he remembers best, because he’s loud and genuine and never shies away from, well, reacting. Not on his own recordings, at least. Most times when they’re playing, Mark can picture Sean’s reactions in his head as he hears him through his headset, but there isn’t always footage to go with it. When there is, Mark is eager to watch it and always catches himself grinning the entire time. He doesn’t necessarily ask himself questions about that.

Chica moves her head, likely bothered by the dead weight of Mark’s hand on her neck, and Mark removes it from there altogether. He grabs the edge of the laptop and leans closer to the screen, as though to make sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him; he is tired, after all. He puts his glass of water on the floor and directs all of his attention to the video playing on the lowest volume possible; the idea was that he could enjoy a little peace and silence even while watching a jacksepticeye recording.

The irony is that he will never be at peace again after seeing the countdown on top of Sean’s head.

Even though he knows what he’s seeing, his mind still fumbles for a logical explanation. 

A prank? 

Mark opens his browser and immediately navigates to Sean’s channel, clicks the first video that pops up. The bright yellow numbers are there. His eyes peruse all of Sean’s thoughtfully made thumbnails on display; those with his face on it have the numbers above his head too.

Mark shakes his head slowly, incredulously. He doesn’t notice his breathing becoming laboured. If this is a prank, Sean is not the one behind it.

Clicking through dozens of Sean’s videos, even some of his oldest ones, only proves that he isn’t hallucinating that counting-down number. It really is there, and Mark can’t wrap his head around it. In a flurry of movements, he bolts up from the couch, leaving the laptop sitting next to a confused Chica, and darts upstairs to his room. He stops in front of the mirror in his en-suite, staring at his own reflection hopeful that something will appear above his head as well, but nothing does even after minutes. He keeps staring, face devoid of any emotions, but inside he can feel panic rising and his chest heaves up and down as an indication.

He buries his face in his hands.

 

***

 

His phone isn’t turned off or on flight mode, but it doesn’t chime even once throughout the night. No messages, no calls. He turns it in his hand repeatedly in the same mechanical fashion that his mind is working. 

It’s been four hours since the opening of Sean’s video.

Mark has returned to the couch, turned the TV on and off, clicked countless of other people’s videos on Youtube, but no one else appeared to have a monstrous number counting backwards over their heads. He also checked Twitter, but Sean’s last tweet was nine hours ago and nothing that raised any flags. If Sean had suddenly started seeing this counter too, either his own or someone else’s – Mark’s, even, like some sort of wicked trade – he’d probably have been too disturbed to go on social media. It begs the question: what would Sean’s first course of action be in a circumstance like this? Because Mark himself has no idea what to do.

And now he stares blankly at an indistinct spot across the living room trying to make sense of what is happening, sleep out of the picture. He doesn’t even blink. 

This is all just absurd and crazy. Impossible too, he adds stubbornly, refusing to fully believe the situation that has somehow befallen him.

He has things to do. Edit the videos, record new ones.

He can’t do any of it.

 

***

 

When dusk turns to dawn Mark is in the shower. A cold one would have been very effective for the kind of day he will have, but he can’t stand the chilly water on his skin when the weather isn’t soaring hot. It might be like that later, but right now a warm shower feels a lot more pleasant. He wants as much of that feeling as he can get before he needs to face the nightmare that has installed itself in his life literally overnight. He hopes it won’t make him sleepy, though, because despite the all-nighter and the bubbling fear in his stomach, he wants to be able to rationalize this, study his options carefully before taking any action.

At some point, Mark rests his forehead against the wall of white tiles, closes his eyes and just lets the shower stream run down his back for a little while. He realizes then, with a crushing grip on his heart, that this is probably the most afraid he’s been in his life. As if losing a friend recently wasn’t enough, he is now confronted with the possibility – certainty? Oh my God – of losing another.

A mirthless laugh comes out of his mouth as Mark clutches the shower tap so hard his hand becomes numb. He thinks he will cry, but the numbness spreads through him like poison in his bloodstream and leaves him with a heady sensation at most.

That’s how he operates from that moment on.

 

***

 

There are things to be taken care of before he can sit and think the situation through.

Chica is the one Mark tends to first. He takes her for her morning walk and makes a point not to rush her; after all she has nothing to do with what is going on. The sky is hidden by clouds, but Mark knows that soon enough the sun will shine through and urge them away. He can’t find it in him to look upbeat though, and Chica seems to notice it, stopping every now and then to stare at his sullen face as if asking if he wants to just turn around and go back home. He doesn’t, at least for another ten minutes or so.

As soon as they get back, he makes sure she has food and water and even tidies up her bed and toys, unconsciously preparing her to be left by herself for most of the day. She looks dejected when she goes lie down, and it breaks Mark’s heart a little further.

The next thing he does is call Matt. Realizing he hasn’t spoken a word in the last eight hours, Mark warms up his voice a little before his friend answers.

“Hey, Mark, what’s up?”

He suddenly thinks about the time; it’s not even eight in the morning.

“Hey, Matt. I’m sorry,” he stutters a bit. “It’s really freaking early. Did I wake you?”

“Nope, up already.”

“Oh, good,” he pauses, looks at his own feet. He’s not sure he’s managing to sound casual. “Listen, do you think you can do me a big favor today? Like, really big?” His voice cracks a bit at the end and Mark tries to disguise it with a cough. It gives him an idea.

“What is it?” Matt asks, and Mark can hear worry in his voice. “Is everything all right?”

“Not really, actually. My throat is killing me and I’m feverish as hell,” he says, faking hoarseness. “As usual I don’t have anything prepared to post today. Would you be able to help me throw something together for later? And perhaps for tomorrow morning too?”

Matt hums for a moment, seeming to contemplate his own schedule.

“What were you thinking? I mean, for the posts?”

“I don’t know, I have some Happy Wheels recordings I could send you, and I was thinking maybe a general highlights for the other video?”

“Okay, yeah. Can do.”

Mark lets out the breath he’s been holding.

“Oh, man, thank you so much. Don’t know what I’d do without you right now.”

That last sentence slaps an image of Sean’s face onto his brain and whatever he or Matt say after that, none of it registers.

He sits down on the couch just to be safe.

Before letting go of his phone, he messages Bob and Wade to let them know that their Overwatch video will be delayed, not mentioning any specific reasons for it. Bob replies almost instantly, telling him not to worry. Wade probably isn’t awake yet.

Mark ponders if he should send Sean that message too, but decides against it for the time being.

With a feeling akin to determination, he grabs his laptop again. The browser is still open and one of the tabs is the jacksepticeye channel. He clicks it and plays another of his videos. He nods at the rolling numbers, jaw set and heart sinking.

Sean talks so brightly to the camera. For a moment Mark can’t tear his eyes from his; did he ever notice before how much they sparkle, how much life he has in them?

Life, life, life. Mark hates it with all his might right now. The notion that everybody dies in the end. It never should be the end, for anybody, or maybe only for evil people, but people like Sean deserve to live forever.

Once again Mark is on the verge of tears. He presses his lips tight together and lowers his head, but his eyes merely water. He sucks in a shaky breath as he looks at the video again and pauses it. The countdown doesn’t stop.

Why? Why is this happening to him? Why is this happening to Sean? It’s so unfair, so outrageous, so cruel. It is all of that and more, but it’s happening and Mark needs to do something about it.

There’s an immediate need to figure out whether to tell Sean about this or not. How would he even go about it, though? How do you tell someone that you know when they’re going to die? That someone being one of your best friends?

However, when Mark thinks about it, he doesn’t know when Sean is going to die.

Focusing on the number again, Mark tries to type it down on Notepad. It’s difficult because they don’t stop rolling even if the image is still, although they may be going slower than last night when he saw them for the first time. Alternatively, it could be an illusion of his fatigued mind. Either way there are too many digits, fifteen to be precise. Mark, who isn’t particularly religious, thanks God for it.

He manages to get the whole number eventually. Then, as fast as he can and disregarding everything that makes this idea wrong, he sets an alarm on his phone for ten minutes later.

Ten minutes prove to be an eternity when you don’t know what to do with yourself.

He makes himself some instant coffee and goes outside. Chica perks up and follows him, probably hoping for some action. Mark just pets her head, taking in the sunny horizon from his terrace; he was right about the weather, but then it’s been like this for the past days, and it will go on for some more time before rain comes. Unless he’s totally wrong and it will rain tomorrow; he doesn’t really care at this rate.

Checking his phone, seven minutes have passed. He returns to the living room and sits back on the couch, pulling the laptop onto his legs again. He lets his head lull back and closes his eyes; despite himself, he feels his muscles relax a little bit and sighs.

He doesn’t let himself drift off though, and even before the alarm goes off he is already staring intently at the counter. As soon as it does, Mark types down the number on the same document, and with the same difficulty, under the first one. He dismisses the alarm then and sighs again, this time in an attempt to calm his increasingly accelerating heart.

Now, it’s a matter of calculating how much the number dropped in ten minutes and how long it will take for the countdown to reach zero. Mark swallows back the mix of bile and coffee that almost erupts from his throat, sicker than sick.

His phone buzzes before he musters the courage to do the math. He grabs it with a weak hand and unlocks it with a swipe of his thumb.

> _Mark! last night was super fun, was thinking of playing again later. hit me up! :D_

This time nothing prevents Mark from finally crying. And allowing himself to do it is like hitting the point of no return.

 

***

 

Mark does the math.

The rest of his day goes by like a movie he doesn’t want to see and therefore keeps slipping in and out of consciousness during it. He sends Matt the material for the compilations, and even forces himself to edit the Overwatch video later. Granted, he cries through most of it, especially when they all explode in laughter over something someone said or did. He watches Sean clap and rock back and forth on his chair, all boisterous laughter and uninhibited delight, all the while with a countdown on his life that Mark tries his darndest to ignore. The mouse squeaks with how hard he holds it; it’s either that or ripping it off the computer and throwing it against the nearest wall.

On one of his calmest moments he replies to Sean’s message and kindly declines the invitation for another Overwatch raid, and Sean says it’s a pity. He always makes sure he doesn’t leave messages unanswered, even when Mark messages him late in the Californian night when the Irish man is most likely fast asleep; he replies as soon as he’s up, because he’s that considerate.

He rests his bloodshot eyes when the Happy Wheels video goes up, a good five or six hours later than it should, which is not Matt’s fault whatsoever. It will catch his subscribers by surprise, that’s for sure, and Mark knows for a fact that there will be speculation on why he’s posting so late. He can’t bring himself to care about it, but he does leave the general compilation video scheduled to go out at 8am on the dot the next day, and the Overwatch collaboration at 12pm. He’s not sure how long he will sleep once he finally closes his eyes.

Not very long, it turns out.

Anyone familiar enough with him who happens to hear his screams outside will notice the difference between those and the ones he usually lets out at games: they’re coated with despair and Mark’s deepest wish to wake up from this nightmare. He punches his pillows until they’re practically ruined, ceaselessly flings them into the wall and screams until his throat burns and Chica starts barking and scratching his door incessantly.

It doesn’t feel too early to tell that he will go crazy.

Only one hour after attempting to sleep, Mark gets up and opens the door. Chica desperately pushes herself against his legs and he slides down the wall to hug her.

Minutes pass. He dozes off.

 

***

 

He doesn’t want to look too broken on the vlog he’s recording to let his subscribers know that he’s going to take a break from Youtube. Sure enough, it doesn’t work, but Mark’s determined; after six tries, he gets up from the tub and goes fix himself some warm and very sweet milk. He hasn’t ingested any solid food in over 36 hours and his stomach feels like it will start rejecting liquids too, but for the sake of not passing out he forces the milk down.

It’s raining heavily outside and the lighting in his bathroom isn’t as good as usual, but it’s still the best place to record the video message. When he steps back into the bathtub and positions himself in front of the camera, Mark makes a point not to stop until it’s done and over with. If he cries again, that can be edited out later.

The smile he forces onto his lips pulls every fiber of energy out of his body, like hands reaping the crop out of the soil. There are no words to describe how exhausted he is, but Mark isn’t going to have to do that for this vlog. It already shows, clear as day.

“Hey guys,” he starts and immediately drops his gaze, stalling for a few seconds before looking up again. His throat is sore and he has to swallow a few times to get his voice out. 

“I, I am sorry. You guys are such a big part of my life, like, you guys are everything,” he whips his head around to the other side, façade falling completely. The more he tries to keep smiling, the more his chin trembles and betrays him. It’s majorly useless.

Perhaps this shouldn’t be edited out. If he claims that his audience is so important and crucial in his life, perhaps they deserve not to be lied to. Mark is aware of the potential consequences of uploading such an emotional video, especially one announcing a break, but maybe it’s what he needs to do for his fans. In all honesty, the theories that will emerge after this are the least of his problems.

“I was actually thinking, that I was going to record this and edit out all of the parts where I might cry,” he says bravely looking at the camera again, and it feels right. “But I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to edit this video. It is what it is.”

Oddly enough, the disclaimer makes him less anxious about it.

“I know that some of you guys will be worried sick after watching this. I know people won’t stop talking about it. I know every possible result of posting this. But I couldn’t simply disappear,” the word makes Mark pause and look away again. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes to wipe away the tears collecting in them, then puts them back on and pushes it up the bridge of his nose, clearing his throat.

“I’m going to take a break from Youtube. I don’t know how long it will be. I have never needed to do this in five years, but I do now because I’m, I’m so, sad...” Mark’s voice cracks again, and this time the burning tears roll down his face. He doesn’t try to stop them, but he does try not to begin sobbing. He needs to finish the message. 

“You guys will probably not understand, but, I can’t, I can’t explain what’s going on, I’m so sorry,” A hiccup cuts off the sentence, and Mark takes a shaky breath to continue. “I’m so sorry that I have to leave you guys in the dark like this, but I hope, I hope you can trust me. Please, please trust me. I love you. I love all of you.”

The pleading tone of his own voice gets to him and the video is pretty much over.

“I will see you,” he manages to say in between sobs and hitched breaths. He wants to complete his famous line, but the truth is he doesn’t know, and he can’t lie. 

“I will see you.”

 

***

 

One of the things Mark fails to consider before uploading his break notice is his own friends’ reactions to it, Sean’s included.

It doesn’t take long at all for the calls to come, nearly at once. Mark picks up them all, and assures everybody that he’s okay and just needs time to reflect on some stuff. Some of them advise against looking at the comments, or at any of his social media accounts for that matter, if he were planning to do so, which he weren’t. Wade and Ryan sound particularly serious about it. They all offer to go spend time with him if he needs it, even the ones who don’t live in LA. Even Sean.

It’s been more than 48 hours since Mark’s living nightmare began, and somehow there’s still enough willpower in him to turn down that offer. Sean understands but insists that if Mark needs it, he will hop onto the next plane to LA and be there for him as fast as he can manage to.

“I know,” he says but almost doesn’t hear himself over the sound of his heart being struck like forged metal on anvil. “I would do the same for you, Sean.”

The fact that he’s months away from having to prove it to Sean makes Mark nauseated all over again. He misses the next call bent over the toilet, throwing up what little food he’s been able to eat up until now. By the time Mark checks his phone again after a shower, there’s another four missed calls, all from his brother.

“I was going to call emergency if you didn’t return my calls,” he says.

“I know, that’s why I’m returning,” Mark says listlessly, fiddling with the dark sheet on his bed. Chica’s on it with him and he hopes it doesn’t become a habit for her, but right now it feels good to have her there.

“What’s going on, Mark?”

“How do you know anything’s happening?”

“Are you kidding me?” Thomas sounds very exasperated. “My Twitter mentions exploded! I must’ve gotten about two hundred DMs from your fans. I thought you’d died, and apparently I’m not the only one.”

Mark has nothing to say to that.

“What’s going on? Why did you post that video?”

Mark sighs, and it’s still shaky and he can still taste bile in his mouth, even though he brushed his teeth and tongue more than should be enough.

“I can’t say, Thomas. I’m sorry.”

“Mark,” Thomas trails off. Mark remains silent, rubbing his foot on his dog’s soft fur.

“Mark, is this about,” he seems not to know how to finish the sentence and Mark gets impatient.

“About what?”

“About you, being, like, gay or something?”

“No, it’s not about me being gay or something, Thomas.”

Thomas still seems not to know what to say.

“Mark, look,” Mark pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes tightly. “Whatever it is, you can confide in me. I’m worried, I’ve never seen you break down like that. Not even when Daniel passed.”

His body freezes over for a moment.

“I’ll tell you when I can, Thomas.”

“Did you do something bad, Mark? Did you hurt someone or--”

“No, I didn’t do anything bad. Stop with the guessing game, please. I just can’t talk about it right now.”

There’s an audible and very frustrated sigh on the other end.

“Okay.”

“If you can, please try not to let mom catch wind of any of this.” Mark pauses. “Has she heard anything about it?”

“No, I don’t think. I’ll try to keep it from reaching her.”

“Thanks, it really helps if I don’t have to worry about her worrying about me right now.”

“What about me? I’m worried as hell.”

“Well,” Mark actually smiles a little upon hearing that. “Thanks, brother. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

That’s the first and much less serious lie he will tell because of the ordeal life’s imposing on him.

 

***

 

Even though the calls become sparser over the next days, the guys continue to sound very concerned for his health and well-being. Mark is really grateful for having such caring friends, but also wonders how much of it is because of what happened to Daniel recently. Were the roles reversed right now, he would not tire of telling them how much he cares. He’d do anything in his power to prevent another friend of his from taking his own life.

He would also take Sean’s fate upon himself without a second thought, but only if it didn’t mean that Sean would be able to see the countdown on his life too. Mark wouldn’t wish even on his worst enemy the agony of knowing when a loved one will pass.

Agony is what his days have turned into.

He sleeps at sporadic intervals, never longer than one, one and a half hours at a time. It does absolutely nothing for him, and Mark’s pretty sure he’s developing a permanent migraine from it. His appetite has become unpredictable as well, which could be helping the migraines. He goes eight hours, sometimes longer, without any kind of sustenance, drinking water and more often than not throwing it up later, and when he eats he almost can’t stop, which leads to more retching and vomiting.

It is with reluctance that Mark realizes that he probably shouldn’t, indeed, be alone in his house. He can see something bad happening to him and Chica being the only witness. At the same time, he doesn’t want to bother anyone with his problems. He especially doesn’t want to tell anyone what has caused all of this; he never thought anyone would believe him in the first place, but that story coming from someone who’s quickly withering away like he is right now would sound particularly preposterous.

To make sure that he’s not actually crazy, Mark checks Sean’s channel regularly and nothing ever changes except for the numeral above his head, which keeps decreasing, although he wouldn’t be able to tell how much it’s gone down since he calculated the estimative of Sean’s remaining time. But the more time passes, the more Mark questions his sanity and whether all of this is real.

He’s in a dangerous place. Now when he cries it’s not entirely over Sean, but also over how lonely and scared he feels.

It amazes even himself though that he still has the mind to tend to Chica and to the house. Mark thinks something is pushing him to try and keep himself occupied the best he can since he’s not working on his channel or doing anything else. He thinks that’s good.

It’s good.

It’s good until the day he wakes up lying next to his pool, cold and drenched from head to toe, coughing and spitting water and gasping for air. He’s alone and the surface of the pool is covered in ripples, or at least it’s what he can make out from looking at it without his glasses.

He claws at his own damp hair, pure horror etched in his face, pulls his knees towards himself and stays there curled into a ball, trembling and shocked out of his wits.

This torture needs to end.

It almost just did.

 

***

 

Needless to say, he doesn’t sleep that night.

In the morning, he messages Sean, asks to Skype with him. Sean asks for fifteen minutes until he’s done with something important. It takes him less but the wait is excruciating all the same.

> _sorry for makin ya wait, signing up right now :D_

Mark clicks the video call button at the same time as he realizes he doesn’t have a plan. He doesn’t know what to say. He just needs to talk to Sean and hear his voice and see his face, even if it means seeing the countdown too, live like it’s New Year’s Eve.

When Sean appears on screen, he’s smiling; the next second he’s clearly aghast.

“Mark, oh my god.”

Mark grimaces. It hits him that he should’ve tried to look less ragged for this, but truth to be told, that probably wouldn’t be possible. Not at this rate.

“Mark, what on earth, what happened to you?”

He’s so ashamed he can barely formulate an answer. Ashamed of everything that’s happening, ashamed of seeing those damned numbers, ashamed of what his life has become in just over a week. He almost regrets having asked for this virtual meeting.

“Mark, say something. You’re scaring me. Please.”

Mark swallows and lifts his head to meet Sean’s gaze. It’s imbued in worry, and Mark is so disconcerted. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose out of habit, but these old ones actually hurt the bone there a little. He will go looking for the pair he’s lost when he feels like he can go near the pool again, if ever.

“Sean, I. I need to. I need to tell you something.”

His heart is beating like it wants out of his body. Sean is leaning forward with his elbows on his desk, one hand over his mouth as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Mark vaguely wonders what he will look like when he hears what is happening.

“I thought you were okay, Mark. Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

Mark’s forehead creases lightly and his focus shifts for a moment. He’s taken aback and it leaves him even more at a loss.

“Sean, listen, I. I am not well. I’m. Sick.”

Sean’s silence urges him to continue. What he says next, however, comes out of nowhere.

“Terminally.”

Sean drops his hands on the desk and slowly leans back.

“What?”

That is the second lie Mark will tell because of the hell that his life has become, the one that will probably change everything for worse.

He doesn’t take it back.

Sean brings his hands to his head, mouth agape and eyes wide, pupils dilated. Then they slide down his face and stop at his cheeks. He’s rocking back and forth on his chair, not even remotely as joyful as in Mark’s last memory of him doing it.

“Mark. Mark. You are not fucking serious right now.”

Mark’s hands are clasped tightly together on his lap, nails digging into his own flesh. His stomach is upset again. He bites his lip, face contorted in pain as he stares at Sean.

He’s choking on all the things he wants to say.

It’s all the confirmation Sean needs.

He jumps off his chair and disappears from the camera for maybe a minute, maybe two. Mark isn’t counting. Hot tears are dropping onto his hands and it’s distracting enough.

When Sean returns it’s like another person completely. He has a clamped fist pressed against his mouth and is biting into it so hard Mark can see the skin whitening. His face is of a crimson color that he never knew was humanly possible. Mark sees the agony he grew so familiar with over the last days in Sean’s rapidly welling eyes, and he hates himself so much, so much, so much.

“Mark, no.” He pleads, a thread of saliva connecting his lips to the fist that was just there.

Mark’s body shakes violently with the first sob that escapes him. It’s pointless to try to hold back now, so he just lets himself break down. Sean’s crying is louder, and he’s repeating the last words he said like a mantra.

Mark doesn’t dare to look at him, not until several minutes later when he manages to resurface from this wild sea of sorrow and a lie bigger and more intricate than the whole universe.

He finds Sean hunched over, hiding his face on his arms on the desk. He’s gone still.

“Sean,” Mark calls and doesn’t get a response. He bites his lip again until it numbs and breaks.

Slowly, Sean lifts his head and props it with a hand as though his neck can’t hold it straight. His eyes are swollen and the same crimson color of his face now. He’s staring down at something, probably avoiding Mark’s eyes. His jaw is clenched.

“Come stay with me. Please,” he manages in a half-whisper.

Sean doesn’t say anything before he drops his head onto his arms again.

Mark will wait.


End file.
